 | CHAPTER XXI.
FRANK AND THE WILL. Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
FRANK AND THE WILL.
FRANK knew she had found the will, but he did not at
all realize the effect which the finding of it would have
upon his future. He had not read it like Magdalen,
— he did not know that by virtue of what was recorded there,
he, and not Roger, was the heir of Millbank. He only knew
that Magdalen lay unconscious at his feet, her white forehead
touching his boot, and one of her hands clutching at his knee
where it had fallen when she raised it imploringly toward him,
with a pleading word for Roger. To lift her in his arms and bear
her to the window, which he opened so that the wind and rain
might fall upon her face and neck, was the work of an instant;
and then, still supporting her upon his shoulder, he rubbed and
chafed her pale fingers and pushed her hair back from her face,
and bent over her with loving, anxious words, which she did
not hear and would scarcely have heeded if she had. Gradually
as the rain beat upon her face she came back to consciousness,
But he held her fast, while he asked what was the matter, —
what had she found or seen to affect her so powerfully?
“Don't you know? Haven't you read it?” she gasped; and
Frank replied, “No, Magdalen, I have not read it. My first
care was for you, — always for you, darling.”
She freed herself from him then, and struggling to her feet
stood before him with dilating nostrils and flashing eyes. She
knew that the tone of his voice meant love, — love for her who
had refused it once, — aye, who would refuse it a thousand times
more now than she had before. He could not have Millbank
and her too. There was no Will on earth which had power
to take her from Roger and give her to Frank, and by some
subtle intuition Magdalen recognized for a moment all she was
to Roger, and felt that possibly he would prefer poverty with
her to wealth without her; just as a crust shared with him
would be sweeter to her than the daintiest luxury shared with
Frank, who had called her his darling and who would rival
Roger in everything. Magdalen could have stamped her foot
in her rage that Frank should presume to think of love then
and there, when he must know what it was she had found for
him, — what it was he held in his hand. And here she wronged
him; for he did not at all realize his position, and he looked
curiously at her, wondering to see her so excited.
“Are you angry, Magdalen?” he asked. “What has happened
to affect you so? Tell me. I don't understand it at
all.”
Then Magdalen did stamp her foot, and coming close to
him, said, “Don't drive me mad with your stupidity, Frank
Irving. You know as well as I that I have found what when a
child you once asked me to search for, — you to whom Roger
was so kind, — you, who would deal so treacherously with Roger
in his own house; and I promised I would do it, — I, who
was ten times worse than you. I was a beggar whom Roger
took in, and I've wounded the hand that fed me. I have
found the will; but, Frank Irving, if I had guessed what
they should have looked for it. You deceived me. You said
it gave you a part, — only a part. You told me false, and I
hate you for it.”
She was mad now with her excitement, which increased as she
raved on, and she looked so white and terrible, with the fire
flashing out in gleams from her dark eyes, that Frank involuntarily
shrank back from her at first, and kept out of reach of
the hands which made so fierce gestures toward him as if they
would do him harm. Then as he began to recover himself,
and from her words get some inkling of the case, he drew her
gently to him, saying as he did so, “Magdalen, you wrong me
greatly. Heaven is my witness that I always meant to give
you the same impression of the will which I received from my
mother, though really and truly I never had much idea that
there was one, and am as much astonished to find there is as
you can be. I have not read it yet, and I am not responsible
for what there is in it. I knew nothing of it, had nothing to do
with it; please don't blame me for what I could not help.”
There was reason in what he said, and Magdalen saw it, and
softened toward him as she replied, “Forgive me, Frank, if in
my excitement I said things which sounded harshly, and blamed
you for what you could not help. But, oh! Frank, I am so
sorry for Roger, poor Roger. Say that you won't wrong him.
Be merciful; be kind to him as he has been to you.”
Frank's perceptions were not very acute, but he would have
been indeed a fool if in what Magdalen said he had failed to
detect a deeper interest in Roger than he had thought existed.
He did detect it, and a fierce pang of jealousy shot through his
heart as he began to see what the obstacle was which stood
between himself and Magdalen.
“I do not understand why you should be so distressed about
Roger, or beg of me to be merciful,” he said; but Magdalen
interrupted him with a gesture of impatience.
“Read that paper and you will know what I mean. You
He has nothing, — nothing comparatively.”
Frank understood her now. He knew before that the lost
will was found, and he supposed that possibly he shared equally
with Roger, but he never dreamed that to him was given all,
and to Roger nothing; and as Magdalen finished speaking he
opened the paper nervously and read it through, while she sat
watching him, her eyes growing blacker and brighter and more
defiant, as she fancied she saw a half-pleased expression flit
across his face when he read that he was the lawful heir of
Millbank. He had been defrauded of his rights for years, had
murmured against his poverty and his dependence, and thought
hard things of the old man in his grave who had left him only
five thousand dollars. But that was over now. Poverty and
dependence were things of the past. The old man in his grave
had willed to Frank, his beloved grandchild, all his property
except a few legacies similar to those in the older will, and the
paltry sum left to “the boy known as Roger Lennox Irving.”
That was the way it was worded, not “My son Roger,” but
“the boy known as Roger Lennox Irving.” To him was bequeathed
the sum of Five Thousand dollars, and the farm
among the New Hampshire hills known as the “Morton”
place. That was all Roger's inheritance, and it is not strange
that Frank sat for a moment speechless. Had he shared
equally with Roger he would not have been surprised; but why
he should have the whole and Roger nothing, he did not understand.
The injustice of the thing struck him at first quite
as forcibly as it did Magdalen, and more to himself than her,
he said, “There must be some mistake. My grandfather would
never have done this thing in his right mind. Where did you
find it, Magdalen?”
He did not seem elated, as she feared he might. She had
done him injustice, and with far more toleration than she had
felt for him at first, Magdalen told him where she had found it
and why she chanced to look there, and pointed to the signatures
of Hester and Aleck Floyd as witnesses to the will.
“Hester hid it,” she said, “because she knew it was unjust,
and it was the fear of its being found which troubled her so
much.”
“That is probable,” Frank rejoined; “but still I can see no
reason for my grandfather's cutting Roger off with a mere pittance.
It is cruel. it is unjust.”
“Oh, Frank,” Magdalen cried, and the tears which glittered
in her eyes softened the fiery expression they had worn a few
moments before. “Forgive me; I was harsh towards you at
first, but now I know you mean to do right. You will, Frank.
You certainly will do right.”
Magdalen had recovered her powers of speech and she talked
rapidly, begging Frank to be generous with Roger, to leave
him Millbank, to let him stay in the beautiful home he loved
so much. “Think of all he has done for you,” she said, clasping
her hands upon his arm and looking at him with eyes from
which the tears were dropping fast. “Were you his son he
could hardly have done more; and he has been so kind to me,
— me who have requited his kindness so cruelly. Oh, Roger,
Roger, I would give my life to spare him this blow!”
She covered her face with her hands, while Frank sat regarding
her intently, his affection for her at that moment mastering
every other emotion and making him indifferent to the great
fortune which had so suddenly come to him. Love for Magdalen
was the strongest sentiment of which he was capable, and
it was intensified with the suspicion that roger was preferred
to himself. He could interpret her distress and concern for
his uncle in no other way. Gratitude alone could never have
affected her as she was affected, and Frank's heart throbbed
with jealousy and fear and intense desire to secure Magdalen
for himself. There had been a momentary feeling of exultation
when he thought of his poverty as a thing of the past, but Magdalen's
love was worth more to him than a dozen Millbanks,
and in his excitement no sacrifice seemed too great which would
secure it.
“Oh, Roger, Roger, I would give my life to spare him this
in his ears, Frank said to her at last, “Magdalen, you need not
give your life; there is a far easier way by which Roger can be
spared the pain of knowing that Millbank is not his. He never
need to know of this will; no one need to know of it but ourselves,
— you and me, Magdalen. We will keep the secret together,
shall we?”
Magdalen had lifted up her head, and was listening to him
with an eager, wistful expression in her face, which encouraged
him to go on.
“But, Magdalen, my silence must have its price, and that
price is yourself!”
She started from him then as if he had stung her, but soon
resumed her former attitude, and listened while he continued:
“I asked you once, and you refused me, and I meant to try
and abide by your decision, but I cannot give you up; and
when I found that Roger favored my suit and would be glad if
you could give me a favorable answer, I resolved to try again,
and came home this very afternoon with that object in view.”
Frank stopped abruptly, struck with the look of anguish
and pain and surprise which crept into Magdalen's eyes as he
spoke of “Roger's favoring his suit.”
“Roger consent; oh no, not that. Roger never wished
that,” Magdalen exclaimed, in a voice full of bitter disappointment.
“Did Roger wish it, Frank? Did he say so, sure?”
Few men, seeing Magdalen moved as she was then, would
have urged their own claims upon her; but Frank was different
from most men. He had set his hopes on Magdalen, and he
must win her, and the more obstacles he found in his way the
more he was resolved to succeed. He would not see the love
for Roger which was so apparent in all Magdalen said and did.
He would ignore that altogether, and he replied, “Most certainly
he wishes it, or he would not have given his consent for
me to speak to you again. I talked with him about it the last
thing this morning before he started for New York. Did I tell
you he had gone there? He has, and expects it to be settled
place for love-making, but your great desire to spare Roger from
a knowledge of the will wrung from me what otherwise I would
have said at another time. Magdalen, I have always loved you,
from the morning I put you in your candle-box and knelt before
you as my princess. You were the sweetest baby I ever
saw. You have ripened into the loveliest woman, and I want
you for my wife. I have wanted money badly, but now that
I have it, I will gladly give it all for you. Only say that you
will be mine, and I'll burn this paper before your eyes, and
swear to you solemnly that not a word regarding it shall ever
pass my lips. Shall I do it?”
Magdalen was not looking at him now. When he assured
her of Roger's consent to woo her for himself, and that he
“expected it to be settled before his return,” she had turned her
face away to hide the bitter pain she knew was written upon it.
She had been terribly mistaken. She had believed that Roger
cared for her, and the knowing that he did not, that he could
even give his consent for her to marry Frank, was more than
she could bear, and she felt for a moment as if every ray of
happiness had, within the last hour, been stricken from her life.
“Shall I do it? only speak the word, and every trace of the
will shall be destroyed.”
That was what Frank said to her a second time, and then
Magdalen turned slowly toward him, but made him no reply.
She scarcely realized what he was asking, or what he meant
to do, as he took a match from his pocket and struck it
across the floor. Gradually a ring of smoke came curling up
and floated toward Magdalen, who sat like a stone gazing fixedly
at the burning match, which Frank held near to the paper.
“Tell me, Magdalen, will you be my wife, if I burn the
will?” he asked again; and then Magdalen answered him,
“Oh, Frank, don't tempt me thus. How can I? Oh, Roger,
Roger!”
She was beginning to waver, and Frank saw it, and too much
excited himself to know what he was doing, held the match so
would have been in a blaze. Then Magdalen came to herself,
and struck the match from Frank's hand, and snatching the
paper from him, said, vehemently, “You must not do it.
Roger would not suffer it, if he knew. Roger is honorable,
Roger is just. I found the paper, Frank: I will carry it to
Roger, and tell him it was I who ruined him. I will beg for
his forgiveness, and then go away and die, so I cannot witness
his fall.”
She had risen to her feet, and was leaving the garret, but
Frank held her back. He could not part with her thus; he
could not risk the probable consequences of her going to
Roger, as she had said she would. But one result could follow
such a step, and that result was death to all Frank most desired.
Millbank weighed as nothing when compared with Magdalen,
and Frank made her listen to him again, and worked
upon her pity for Roger until, worried and bewildered, and
half-crazed with excitement, she cried out, “I'll think about
it, Frank. I will love you, if I can. Give me a week in
which to decide; but let me go now, or I shall surely die.”
She tore herself from him, and was hurrying down the stairs
with the will grasped in her hands, when suddenly she stopped,
and, offering it to Frank, said to him, “Put it under the floor
where I found it. Let it stay there till the week is up.”
There was hope in what she said, and Frank hastened to do
her bidding, and then went softly down the stairs, and passed
unobserved through the hall out into the rain, which seemed so
grateful to him after his recent excitement. He did not care
to meet his mother just then, and so he quietly left the house,
and walked rapidly down the avenue toward the village, intending
to strike into the fields and go back to Millbank at the
usual dinner-hour, so as to excite no suspicions.
To say that Frank felt no elation at the thought of Millbank
belonging to him, would be wrong; for, as he walked along,
he was conscious of a new and pleasant feeling of importance,
was doing what few men in his position would have done.
“All mine, if I choose to claim it,” he said to himself once,
as he paused on a little knoll and looked over the broad acres
of the Irving estate, which stretched far back from the river
toward the eastern hills. “All mine, if I choose to have it so.”
Then he looked away to the huge mill upon the river, the
shoe-shop farther on, and thought of the immense revenue they
yielded, and then his eye came back to Millbank proper, — the
handsome house, embowered in trees, with its velvety lawn and
spacious grounds, and its ease and luxury within. “All his,”
unless he chose to throw it away for a girl, who did not love
him, and who, he believed, preferred Roger and poverty and
toil, to luxury and Millbank and himself. Had he believed
otherwise, had no suspicion of her preference for Roger entered
his mind, he might have hesitated a moment ere deciding to
give up the princely fortune which had come so suddenly to
him. But the fact that she was hard to win only enhanced her
value, and he resolutely shut his eyes to the sacrifice he was
making for her sake, and thought instead how he would work
for her, deny himself for her, and become all that her husband
ought to be.
“She shall love me better than she loves Roger. She shall
never regret her choice if she decides for me,” he said, as he
went back to the house, which he reached just as dinner was
announced.
Mrs. Walter Scott had not seen him when he first came home
in the afternoon, but she saw him leave the house and hurry
down the avenue, while something in his manner indicated an
unusual degree of perturbation and excitement. A few moments
later she found Magdalen in her own room, lying upon
the sofa, her face as white as marble, and her eyes wearing
so scared a look that she was greatly alarmed, and asked what
was the matter.
“A headache; it came on suddenly,” Magdalen said, while
her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears, which ran down
her forehead and saying to her, “Poor child, you look as if
you were suffering so much. I wish I could help you. Can
I?”
“No, nobody can help me, — nobody. Oh, is it a sin to wish
I had never been born?” was Magdalen's reply, which confirmed
Mrs. Walter Scott in her suspicion that Frank had something
to do with her distress.
Frank had spoken again and been refused, and they might lose
the hundred thousand after all. Mrs. Walter Scott could not
afford to lose it. She had formed too many plans which were
all depending upon it to see it pass from her without an effort
to keep it, and bringing a little stool to Magdalen's side, she
sat down by her and began to caress, and pity, and soothe her,
and at last said to her, “Excuse me, darling, but I am almost
certain that Frank has had more or less to do with your headache.
I know he has been here; did you see him?”
Magdalen made no reply, only her tears fell faster, and she
turned her face away from the lady, who continued, in her
softest, kindest manner, “My poor boy, I know all about it;
can't you love him? Try, darling, for my sake as well as his.
We could be so happy together. Tell me what you said to
him.”
“No, no, not now. Please don't talk to me now. I am so
miserable,” was Magdalen's reply, and with that Mrs. Walter
Scott was obliged to be content, until she found herself alone
with her son at the dinner table.
Dismissing the servant the moment dessert was brought in,
she asked him abruptly “what had transpired between him
and Magdalen to affect her so strangely.”
Frank's face was very pale, and he betrayed a good deal of
agitation as he asked in turn what Magdalen herself had said.
He had a kind of intuition that if his mother knew of the
will, no power on earth could keep her quiet. He believed
she liked Magdalen, but he knew she liked money better; and
he was alarmed lest she should discover his secret, and be the
as one obstacle after another was thrown in his way.
Mrs. Irving repeated all that had passed between herself and
Magdalen, and then Frank breathed more freely, and told on
his part what he thought necessary to tell.
“Magdalen had been a good deal excited,” he said, “and
had asked for a week in which to consider the matter, and he
had granted it. And mother,” he added, “please let her alone,
and not bother her with questions, and don't mention me to
her above all things. 'Twill spoil everything.”
Frank had finished his pudding by this time, and without
waiting for his mother's answer he left the dining room and
went at once to his own chamber, where he passed the entire
evening, thinking of the strange discovery which had been
made, wondering what Magdalen's final decision would be, and
occasionally sending a feeling of longing and regret after the
fortune he was giving up.
| CHAPTER XXI.
FRANK AND THE WILL. Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward | |